“For my mistress,” said she, with an air of mystery.

“Why not take it to her, then?” inquired Rose.

“I thought you might like to see it first, mademoiselle,” said Jacintha, with quiet meaning.

“Is it from the dear doctor?” asked Josephine.

“La, no, mademoiselle, don’t you know the doctor is come home?  Why, he has been in the house near an hour.  He is with my lady.”

The doctor proved Jacintha correct by entering the room in person soon after; on this Rose threw down the letter, and she and the whole party were instantly occupied in greeting him.

When the ladies had embraced him and Camille shaken hands with him, they plied him with a thousand questions.  Indeed, he had not half satisfied their curiosity, when Rose happened to catch sight of the letter again, and took it up to carry to the baroness.  She now, for the first time, eyed it attentively, and the consequence was she uttered an exclamation, and took the first opportunity to beckon Aubertin.

He came to her; and she put the letter into his hand.

He put up his glasses, and eyed it.  “Yes!” whispered he, “it is from
him.”

Josephine and Camille saw something was going on; they joined the other two, with curiosity in their faces.

Rose put her hand on a small table near her, and leaned a moment.  She turned half sick at a letter coming from the dead.  Josephine now came towards her with a face of concern, and asked what was the matter.

The reply came from Aubertin.  “My poor friends,” said he, solemnly, “this is one of those fearful things that you have not seen in your short lives, but it has been more than once my lot to witness it.  The ships that carry letters from distant countries vary greatly in speed, and are subject to detaining accidents.  Yes, this is the third time I have seen a letter come written by a hand known to be cold.  The baroness is a little excited to-day, I don’t know from what cause.  With your approbation, Madame Raynal, I will read this letter before I let her see it.”

“Read it, if you please.”

“Shall I read it out?”

“Certainly.  There may be some wish expressed in it; oh, I hope there is!”

Camille, from delicacy, retired to some little distance, and the doctor read the letter in a low and solemn voice.

“My dear mother,—­I hope all are well at Beaurepaire, as I am, or I hope soon to be.  I received a wound in our last skirmish; not a very severe one; but it put an end to my writing for some time.”

“Poor fellow! it was his death wound.  Why, when was this written?—­why,” and the doctor paused, and seemed stupefied:  “why, my dears, has my memory gone, or”—­and again he looked eagerly at the letter—­“what was the date of the battle in which he was killed? for this letter is dated the 15th of May.  Is it a dream? no! this was written since the date of his death.”